Meeting The Bosses
by katreeny
Summary: A series of one-shots of the first meetings of various bosses with their nations.
1. Chapter 1

The newly-elected Chancellor of Germany couldn't help wondering why her predecessor insisted that she end a long, tiring day – mostly of party negotiations, to build a governing coalition – with an informal handover 'ceremony' in what would soon be her office in the Chancellery. In all her years in politics she'd never heard of any such thing – but she'd never been quite at this level either.

The large room with its floor to ceiling glass windows looking out over the lights of Berlin was stiffly formal despite the attempts to make it less so – post-modernist architecture usually failed on that front: she sympathized with those who nicknamed the building the 'elephant loo' – but perhaps more startling was the fact that it was occupied and Chancellor Schroder didn't seem the least bit concerned.

The two men who rose to greet them had to be related, she thought. Though one was slightly shorter than the other, their facial features were all but identical, and if the shorter man hadn't had distinctively albino white hair and too-pale skin – good lord, his eyes were actually _red_ – he would have easily passed for the other.

"Madam Chancellor," Schroder said with a hint in his voice that he was more than happy about whatever this was. "Allow me to introduce our national avatars. Germany,"

The taller one – he had slicked-back blond hair, blue eyes, and could have stepped right out of an East German recruiting poster, or one from further back – stepped forward.

She extended her right hand automatically, too shocked to protest.

The man's grip was firm, his manner direct. "It is an honor, Madam Chancellor." His voice was deep, with a coldness to it that made her want to shiver.

The weight of years behind those ice-blue eyes was something she had to fight.

Schroder's voice took on a certain weariness. "And his brother, Prussia."

Before she could protest that Prussia no longer existed, the other man – who wore a deep blue version of the Inspector-General's uniform – stepped forward and bowed, taking her extended right hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles in a gesture that was somehow more challenging than romantic. "Madam Chancellor," he said, his voice oddly rough, as though he'd spent years abusing it until the baritone became harsh, scratchy. "Congratulations. You've made a good start."

She blinked, and in that moment the pale man straightened and winked at her, a wicked grin transforming his face into something wild, primal.

His brother rolled his eyes. "I would apologize for my dear brother's behavior, but I fear it would do no good," he said in a dry voice.

Finally, she found her voice. "Chancellor Schroder, really. What _is_ this?" She hadn't taken Schroder for the type to set up elaborate practical jokes.

A wholly uncharacteristic smile crossed the older man's face. "Exactly what I told you, Chancellor Merkel. I've had the 'joy' -" The sarcasm there could have melted steel. "- of dealing with them for the last seven years. Now they're your responsibility." With that, he collected a small box of what she presumed were personal items, and left her to deal with the men he'd called 'Germany' and 'Prussia'.

Prussia made a rude noise. "Arse," he muttered.

Germany only sighed. "You did steal his underwear and fly it from the Bundestag flagpole."

"Only because he dared me to."

"Only you would call that a dare."

Angela Merkel, Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany, dropped into the nearest chair without concern for protocol or manners. "Excuse me."

Both men stopped their bickering and turned to face her.

"I would like an explanation, gentlemen." Her voice hardened a little. "_Now_."

#

Chancellor Merkel now understood why her predecessor was so eager to pass these national avatars on to her. Both were... well, the embodiment of their people. Precisely how the Federal Republic of Germany had come to have two quite different embodiments – but weirdly similar too, she noticed as they talked. Their gestures, their body language... all so similar that with hair dye and contacts Prussia could pass as Germany – was a complex thing going back to the formation of the German Empire with detours through the Preussenschlag and the post-war partitioning. It was something she didn't want to investigate too closely: the way the brothers glossed over certain aspects of that time told her they found it deeply painful to remember it.

More than that, they were the best and worst of the German people, writ larger than life. Germany, the younger of the two, had the stoic obedience and diligence. Prussia had the fire that had marked the Prussian people until they'd been assimilated into Germany – a fire that had ultimately been essential to bringing down the East German regime. Where Prussia would fight control, Germany would submit to it – and that could so easily be disastrous. _Had_ been disastrous, in the 1930s.

"I presume there are others like you?" It took nearly two hours to reach that question, two of the most unnerving and disturbing hours Merkel had ever endured.

Germany gave the faintest of smiles, and Prussia grinned. "Oh, there are lots of us. One for each nation, mostly, although there are two Italies, and Britain has England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. England usually represents them, though." His red eyes gleamed. "North Italy, Italy Veneziano, he's here a lot, visiting Germany. He'll feed you pasta and chirp at you, but he's sweet and easy to get on with."

Germany flushed. "Do you _mind_?"

"Not at all." Prussia's grin widened. "Russia's big and creepy. He's always got this blank little smile – but if you do something nice for him, he melts."

Germany winced.

Merkel most emphatically did not want to know.

That didn't protect her. "I drop by his place every now and then and give him sunflowers," Prussia added. "He's kind of like the big clumsy kid everyone thinks is a bully, because he doesn't realize he's too big for everyone else so he accidentally breaks them."

If that was supposed to be reassuring, it failed.

"Brother, you are not helping." Germany appeared to agree. He pinched the bridge of his nose as though trying to ward off a headache. "You will likely meet most of the other avatars at your first international event, Madam Chancellor," he said. "They will be on their best behavior -" A quick glare at his brother. "- although I have to admit that isn't saying much."

Prussia's laughter sounded like someone crossed a hiss and a snicker and tried to hack it to pieces. The sound was simultaneously unnerving and amusing. "What my awesome little brother means to say is France will feel you up, Spain will offer you tomatoes, Italy Romano will threaten you if you don't take them, Ukraine will pop a button or two -"

"Brother!" Germany blushed a spectacular dark red. "That is most inappropriate."

Prussia waggled his right hand. "No, that's just normal." He grinned. "See, all of us have been around long enough to know each other pretty well, and we kind of like the way things are at the moment, where there's no big wars and we've mostly stopped trying to seize each other's vital regions except in a personal kind of way."

Germany looked pained.

Merkel frowned a little. "Don't explain 'seizing vital regions'. Just get to the point."

The grin broadened, and Merkel had the oddest feeling that Prussia approved of her. "So we know how far we can push, and we do. It might look like there's a small war going on when we get together, but it's mostly friendly."

"By which my brother means the damage is limited to minor injuries and very little property damage," Germany added with a forbidding frown.

Merkel considered that. Even though the whole concept was just too bizarre, she was aware of the two of them as more than merely human. They felt solid, like old friends she'd known all her life and trusted implicitly. She'd have to examine that later, when she was more able to focus. "Precisely what is entailed by 'minor' injury to a more or less immortal being?"

Prussia laughed softly, a low rumble of a sound. "We can walk away from it, most of the time." He gestured expansively. "We heal fast, and it takes more to damage us in the first place."

"Dare I ask what the cleaning bills are like?" she asked with more than a little sarcasm. She might have avoided politics in her youth, preferring to escape the stifling Communist rule by studying physics and chemistry, but she did know how difficult it was to clean blood from wood and carpet – mostly thanks to childhood accidents.

Prussia laughed, and Germany looked faintly embarrassed. "The Office of the Chancellery has a dedicated fund for any... accidents that might occur when we host international events," he said. "Our salaries come from that same fund, so even my reckless brother has an incentive to avoid causing too much trouble."

Merkel recognized his tone: the fond exasperation she'd heard from her parents when she'd done something particularly foolish. She decided not to press that point, and asked instead, "So what do you actually _do_?"

Prussia's grin sharpened a little. "Officially or otherwise?"

Germany cuffed him lightly, and shook his head. "We advise your Cabinet and bureau heads on policy matters. We are also required to sign off on any legislation or regulation affecting the nation as a whole."

Prussia made a sour face. "Which is _not_ a rubber-stamp, no matter what the fucking Commies thought."

"Prussia!"

Merkel waved off Germany's attempted apology before he could speak. "I quite understand the sentiment." She frowned then. "When I was Deputy Speaker in the transitional government, I'm sure I sure you around..."

"Would this help?" Prussia slumped, his posture becoming more huddled, and the sense of presence about him shrank, making him look inconspicuous. Then he straightened again.

"Yes, I _did_ see you!" He didn't look a day older, either.

"That was 'East'." Prussia's sarcasm could have melted steel. "The persona I used until we reunified." He slung an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Sweet, meek, obedient little rubber-stamp – who was working behind the scenes the bring the bastards down."

That sounded, well... Prussian. The adherence to principle, the desire to do what was _right_ rather than what was convenient or safe. It all tied to what she recalled of the old Prussian virtues. "I presume that means you review the documents before signing."

"Oh, yes." Prussia's red eyes lit with glee. "And send 'em back with comments if they aren't good enough."

Germany nodded. "My brother's commentary can be somewhat... blunt."

"Tch. Diplomacy is for enemies, you know that, brother." Prussia made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. "If they aren't up to the job they shouldn't be doing it."

Merkel decided this was not the time to find out what these brothers considered adequate. She suspected the knowledge would give her more than one headache during her time as Chancellor. "And your work arrangements?" she asked instead.

Germany replied. "We share an office in the Reichstag building, which we use when the Bundestag is in session. At other times we work from our home in Berlin. You should already have our contact information in your computer here. It will no doubt be on file as well so you can add it to your personal devices. For crises we are on call at all times."

Neither seemed to regard that as anything unusual, although Merkel did wonder how they relaxed. She had no intention of asking. "I see."

"We also advise you on matters regarding Germany's future and direction," Germany continued. "We are both equally able to handle any matters of state." His eyes narrowed a little. "I recommend you listen to my brother's advice on strategic and logistical matters. He has no equals in that field."

"That's because I'm just that awesome," Prussia put in.

Germany rolled his eyes. "Yes, brother. You are." He returned his attention to Merkel. "Under normal circumstances I handle most of the internal affairs, and my brother handles military, police, secret service, and international affairs."

Markel swallowed. The man was a walking diplomatic incident...

Prussia did that weird hissing snicker thing. "You should see your face, Chancellor."

"On the whole, I would rather not."

He grinned, and winked. "Oh, I can play the diplomatic game as well as anyone. The thing is, the other avatars, they all think they know what to expect from me." Now there was a feral edge to his smile. "So I give them what they expect."

Germany's dry chuckle failed to be reassuring. "One last thing, Chancellor. We serve you because you are the elected representative of the people of Germany. Do not abuse that."

#


	2. Chapter 2

The summons to the Presidium gave very little information: President Yeltsin wished to speak with him at his earliest convenience – meaning immediately. While he walked through the frigid December air to what was – despite being sixty-five years old – one of the newest buildings in the Kremlin complex, the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation could not help but wonder if he was going to become the _former_ Prime Minister after less than six months holding the office.

It wasn't impossible. President Yeltsin was growing more erratic by the day, and had dismissed his entire cabinet several times in the last two years. Knowing that the man's behavior was mostly driven by his heart disease and a neurological disorder – the exact nature of the disorder was a State secret at the same level as knowledge of the national avatars and the Prime Minister's rank was insufficient for that – rather than the excessive intake of vodka the media and others presumed it to be didn't make it any easier to work with the man.

He nodded to the guards on duty at the main entrance of the building, giving the unfortunate men a few words of sympathy while they checked that he was indeed supposed to be there before opening the door and letting him enter into the warmth and simple elegance of the Presidium.

More FSB men waited inside to relieve him of his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and usher him to the President's office. They were perfectly professional, he noted with approval, giving no indication of the purpose of the summons. His year as the head of the FSB had involved some extensive restructuring and reforms – informed more than a little by his years with their precursor agency.

When one of the FSB officers opened the door to the President's office, he faltered for a bare fraction of a second before stepping in. He had expected to see President Yeltsin, but not the national avatar himself. Not Russia.

He knew about the national avatars: his duties when he'd been a KGB officer stationed in Dresden included analyzing all the communications of the East German avatar - a thankless task he suspected the bureau chiefs assigned to bright young officers they thought might be getting ideas about improving their station at the expense of said bureau chiefs – but he'd never actually _met_ one.

He recognized the avatar from photographs that had been in East Germany's letters: usually letters sent to Russia with pictures taken at one or another of the Warsaw Pact functions. The letters had been cheerful to the point of inane, but the photos allowed him to recognize the avatars when they appeared in official documents – rarely – or, as was the case now, he found himself in the same room as one.

There was no protocol to dealing with them that he recalled, so he waited for the President to wave him over to one of the comfortable chairs and gave the appropriate greeting for a subordinate meeting his superior for business purposes.

Yeltsin smiled, a world-weary gesture that suggested he would be thankful when this day – this _year_ – ended. "Ah, Vladimir, so good of you to come here."

He inclined his head slightly. "It was no inconvenience, sir." Which wasn't true, but it was expected.

"Please, call me Boris. We are equals, are we not?"

He blinked. How did one inform a national avatar that his President's medication needed to be adjusted: there was nobody else he could tell this. "I beg your pardon?"

This time, the President's smile was almost impish, bringing to mind the man who had defied the KGB and the Red Army to stand on tanks and denounce them for trying to overthrow the President of the then Soviet Union and return to the old days of Communist dictatorship, daring the old guard to silence him. "I am retiring, effective immediately. I recorded the announcement an hour ago: it will be shown at midday. You are now acting President of the Russian Federation."

While he could hardly deny he had ambitions towards the presidency, he hadn't expected _this_. For a long moment, he couldn't think. Had to remember to breathe.

Oh, yes, Yeltsin's smile was definitely his old self before the controversies and the never-ending economic woes and his own frailty wore him down. The man who loved to set feathers flying just to see what would rise when the dust cleared. "You seem a little shocked, President Putin."

Russia laughed. It had to be him: Vladimir Putin knew Yeltsin's voice so there was nobody else that oddly high-pitched – and weirdly deep and rolling, too, despite the sound – voice could belong to. For all Russia was a giant of a man, he sounded like a child. "You should not be teasing him so much, Boris Nicolayevich."

Yeltsin chuckled softly. "Someone needs to, old friend." He nodded to Putin. "Allow me to introduce you to the Russian national avatar. I believe you already know who and what he is."

#

Yeltsin remained only long enough to invite Russia and Putin to visit him in retirement, then Putin found himself alone with his nation and the uncomfortable awareness that he had no idea how he should act. There was nothing in any of the old archives he'd seen that mentioned how one dealt with one's nation personified, much less what manner of address they should receive.

Apparently this was the traditional vengeance of the outgoing leader on his successor. That mischievous glint in Yeltsin's eyes suggested as much.

Russia shifted awkwardly. He hadn't removed his heavy winter coat – standard issue for high-ranking officers – and he fiddled with a faded pink scarf. "Yes. Well. Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, congratulations, I suppose." He shook his head. "It is strange. I thought I would meet the next President after an election."

"Thank you." That much was at least obvious. "I'm a little surprised, myself." That was such an understatement it could be called a lie, but Putin hadn't risen to Lieutenant Colonel in the KGB by revealing weaknesses. "How would you prefer to be addressed, sir?" If in doubt, assume that an unknown is of higher rank. That way you never accidentally offended the wrong person.

Russia's blank-eyed little smile widened. "Call me Russia, sir. I need no titles."

It made sense: Russia was in a class of his own. He might have the rank bars of a General, but as Putin recalled the military rank was something of a courtesy every nation extended to its avatar – although he had no doubt Russia had earned that rank in war. "As you choose." Putin stood, began to pace. "Please, correct me if I misremember. As I recall, you embody the nation and all its people. You can be injured by disasters here as well as by the direct acts of others."

"This is so," Russia said calmly, as if none of it bothered him. "It is so for all of us."

Putin nodded, still trying to place Russia the embodiment of the nation and Russia the man in the President's office in his mind. The two concepts refused to work together: the national avatar was an abstract thing to Putin, something he'd known about but never dealt with personally. The man in the office was far more real than that, complete with a faint scent of snow and a chill that couldn't be explained by any rational means.

The embodiment of his nation was a tall man, broad-shouldered and solid, with a sense of presence to him that suggested stopping him would be akin to stopping a tank. Or possibly a bulldozer. Pale blond hair that seemed oddly reminiscent of steppe grass in late summer, eyes the color of the eastern sky at sunset, and an empty smile that Putin was certain was a facade, a way to hide anything he didn't wish to reveal.

Everyone had their ways of concealing their thoughts and feelings. Putin had learned to recognize some of that, though he would not consider himself an expert. His former superiors back in his KGB days had been astonishingly good at not just recognizing when someone was trying to hide something, but divining what they were trying to conceal.

Putin's inclinations lay more in the other side of human behavior, in the ways one could – with care – convince people to do what one wished in a way that left them believing it was all their own idea. It was a useful ability to have in politics.

He wished – briefly – that he'd thought the do this with Yeltsin: he much preferred to plan his excitement ahead of time. While he enjoyed challenging himself, he disliked being surprised. Very much disliked it.

"What do you hide with that smile, Russia?" he asked softly.

The man's eyes opened wide, and he stepped back. "It is nothing important."

For a moment, Putin fancied he saw fear in the larger man's face, then the blank little smile was back, blocking anything that might reveal Russia's real thoughts. "Forgive me." Putin kept his voice calm, soothing. "I did not intend to pry."

Russia didn't seem to find that reassuring. "If you hurt me, it will not hurt the people of Russia."

Putin blinked. Of the many places this discussion could have gone, he had not expected _this_. "I beg your pardon?"

Russia did relax a bit then, as though his new President's lack of comprehension was a good sign. "Since I am always aware of what my people are thinking, what they are feeling, some of Russia's leaders thought they could control my people by controlling me." He spoke in the flat, empty tone Putin recognized from the KGB's darker branches: the voice of someone who has been broken. "It was most unpleasant."

Again, Putin blinked. 'Unpleasant' was not the way he'd describe the things Russia implied. "If I may be forgiven for suggesting this, it sounds as though you think this is normal?"

When Russia shrugged it was like the Urals moving. "My kind are our people, sir. Whenever our children die unnaturally, we feel their pain. War is horribly painful, but we fight with our people because it would be unthinkable not to. All of us have done terrible things and had terrible things done to us." The old pain in his voice was at odds with that empty smile. "I am no different, yes."

Putin swallowed. "What is it like?" He hadn't meant to ask that: it was a stupid thing to say. How could an immortal being who was connected to his land and people in a way Putin couldn't begin to imagine... how could someone like that explain what that was like to him? "Never mind. It was a foolish question."

A real smile flickered across Russia's face, the sun in midwinter. "We are still very like you, sir," he said. "We have friends, loves, arguments." A soft sigh. "It can be hard, sometimes, when our nations are enemies but we -" he touched his chest - "are friends."

Putin didn't hesitate to use the opportunity to move to somewhat less fraught conversational territory. "When you talk of the other nations, who do you mean?"

"There are my sisters, Ukraine and Belarus. My friends Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia." His tone turned wistful. "Then there is Prussia."

"Prussia? I thought that was dissolved in 1947."

Russia's soft laughter gave the impression that it was somehow stuffed with knives. "It would be a very bad idea to mention that when he is around."

Putin was quite certain that he was being studied closely, that his response to what Russia said next would be critical to his working relationship – whatever that was supposed to be – with the national avatar.

"You would remember him as East Germany," Russia said. "Though that name should not be used in his presence."

Putin tried and failed to bring the thought of the East German avatar – who his superiors had thought was loyal and rather stupid – with Prussia, a nation known for martial prowess and strategic brilliance. The two concepts did _not_ match. "Which one is the real one?"

Russia's smile returned to the blank, empty expression that concealed whatever he truly thought. "He says both, though the world has seen little of East and much of Prussia of late."

So, another who hid himself behind a mask, Putin mused. Or multiple masks, given how utterly different the East Germany of Putin's memories and the reputation of Prussia were. "I presume I will meet these others some day."

"Yes, yes you will." There was real warmth in Russia's tone now, as though Putin had passed some kind of test. "There are many events where our bosses are with us." A hint of malice. "Many world leaders complain about us."

If he had been in the habit of allowing his emotions to display on his face, Putin's eyebrows would have risen to his hairline. "Is that not rather ungrateful?"

Once again, Russia's soft rolling laughter managed to sound deep and threatening as well as almost childish. "You have not met the others."

Putin considered that before deciding that asking about other national avatars was more than a little impolite when his own stood before him and he knew so little about the man... the nation. "If I may, what is your official role?"

Russia shrugged. His hands kneaded the old scarf as though he found comfort in touching the fabric. "It varies. In the old days, before the Revolution, I advised the Czars. Between then and when Mikhail Sergeyevich -"

Gorbachev, Putin mentally added. Odd that Russia would refer to his leaders by their first name and patronymic rather than the more current modes.

"- became my boss, I mainly signed the documents that must be signed by the nation as well as the leader." The emptiness of his tone suggested that there was a great deal of what Russia had called 'unpleasant' memories involved in that time. "Now, I advise my President, and sign the documents. If there is war, I fight. If there is disaster, I help."

Once again Putin found himself considering his words before he spoke. "Does that mean you have a veto?"

This laugh was bitter, almost savage. "Ah, that would be nice." Russia shook his head slowly. "I do not have veto. You are boss: you can order me to sign."

While he'd suspected as much, Putin wasn't sure what he thought about it. The national avatar was a living bellwether, aware of everything Russians did or thought. "Let us hope there are no disagreements that require me to take that step." He was realist enough to know a promise of never having to override his nation was both foolish and false. There would be disagreements: times when his perspective would differ, when his beliefs and Russia's would clash.

Russia's use of old-fashioned forms of address suggested that he was on the conservative side: Putin supposed living for centuries would do that.

Russia didn't smile: his expression was more a wry twist of his lips. "It is a good sentiment," was all he said.

#


	3. Chapter 3

With almost all the official duties over, the traditional statement to the press given, and only the private walk through Number 10 with her predecessor remaining, the new Prime Minister of England and the United Kingdom was looking forward to removing her shoes – they were comfortable enough, but not after ten hours on one's feet – and relaxing with her husband.

Alas, it was not to be. There was a glint of malice in Callaghan's eyes when they exchanged the traditional handshake at the door of Number 10.

Not, as Leader of the Opposition for four years, that she was unfamiliar with the place: the official residence of the Prime Minister – more properly it was the residence of the First Lord of the Treasury, a role that came along with the Prime Minister's office these days – was also the executive headquarters of the British Government, and she'd been called there more than once when Callaghan had wanted to try to broker some kind of deal. Usually something slimy: there was an oiliness to the man that she simply did not trust.

Not until she entered the room Callaghan had been using as his office – each Prime Minister chose which part of the rambling old mansion he would use for an office, and usually decorated it his way – did the faint unease become full-blown alarm. A startlingly handsome young man lounged in the room's only comfortable chair – the one Callaghan's ample rear end usually occupied – looking for all the world as though he belonged precisely where he was.

Behind her, Callaghan cleared his throat. "My final duty is to introduce you to our nation. Mrs Thatcher, this -" No small amount of distaste – even contempt – shaded his voice. "- is Sir Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England, Great Britain, and the United Kingdom."

Thatcher wasn't quite certain whether she heard or imagined the words "and a royal pain".

"Personification?" That was nothing she'd heard mentioned. How could such a thing be possible?

"Quite." Callaghan sounded disgruntled. "Every Prime Minister for years has had the pleasure of dealing with him."

Thatcher raised an eyebrow, studying the young man. "Sir Arthur? Perhaps you might explain? It seems my loyal predecessor finds your existence awkward." Her heart beat too fast: she forced herself to maintain at least the appearance of calm. That Kirkland was dangerous she did not doubt. Despite the impeccable suit and the apparently relaxed pose, there was a sense of readiness to him, a coiled power waiting for the right moment to act.

Whether he was dangerous to _her_ was a different matter entirely, and one she wanted resolved. At once.

Kirkland _flowed_ to his feet, revealing himself to be a man of little more than average height, and bowed, his golden hair falling into his eyes. Eyes that were the most remarkable green Thatcher had ever seen. "Congratulations, Mrs Thatcher." He spoke in a melodious tenor, in an accent that had hints of something stronger behind it. He extended his right hand.

She took it, and blinked as that simple touch sent the oddest sensation rolling through her: a feeling that she knew this man, knew him and trusted him without reservation.

A crooked smile quirked Kirkland's lips. "Well. I must say I am honored to meet someone I need not chase after because they ran screaming from my touch."

She blinked again, and swallowed. "I presume that happens rather often." She needed far too much willpower to keep her voice steady.

The man snorted. "Too bloody often, pardon my French."

That was when Thatcher realized that Callaghan had made himself scarce. She made a sound of exasperation. "Of all the inconsiderate..."

"He's a useless shite with less spine than a jellyfish," Kirkland said. "And that's straight out of Allister's mouth, not mine."

At Thatcher's blank look, Kirkland supplied. "My brother. The Kingdom of Scotland."

That was when Thatcher's knees decided they had endured entirely too much today.

#

Quite some time later, after several cups of tea – Twinings Earl Grey, not Thatcher's personal preference, but with a solicitous young man making it, she wasn't going to object – and some clarification later (Kirkland was apparently only one of what seemed to be a positively insane number of personifications and regarded the other British and Irish ones as his siblings. It seemed to be the kind of dysfunctional relationship that made pro-family lobbies cry), Thatcher hazarded what wasn't quite a question. "I presume other nations also have personifications?"

The lengthy rant about Wales (Llew Mostyn, and he does not look at _all_ like Sir Arthur Kirkland thank you very much), Scotland (Allister Kirkland, apparently the worst person in the entire universe with the possible exception of "the Frog" - Thatcher presumed that meant the personification of the Republic of France), both Irelands (Moira Daly represented Ireland, and Patrick Kirkland Northern Ireland, and if Kirkland was to be believed, neither was worth the air they breathed: Thatcher was sure he was exaggerating) implied a bewildering number of personified nations, and that she would need to interact with all of them.

Kirkland nodded unhappily. "All of them do." He shook his head. "A lot of the more distinct provinces and states also have personifications, as do protectorates like the Isle of Man, and some of the more... unique micronations."

Rather than wince, Thatcher sipped her tea. "I see. May I ask what purpose your kind serves?" There had to be a _reason_ for these immortal beings to exist – after several cups of tea and as many rants from Kirkland, she no longer doubted that he was precisely what he claimed. He was so utterly English it was almost painful.

He shrugged and looked away. "We sign a lot of paperwork," he said. "Officially I come with Number 10 as your advisor, and of course I also advise Her Majesty." A hint of a smile. "Those weekly meetings you'll be attending with Her Majesty during your term of office? I'll be at all of them unless it's World Council week." He made a sour face. "That's one week each month when all our kind gets together to try to reconcile everything our various governments want with who we are. They're a bit contentious – there's a fund to deal with any issues that arise."

As a woman with children, and one who led a political party, Thatcher was not unfamiliar with the art of listening to what was not spoken. "In other words you argue and nothing productive gets done," she said crisply. It was difficult not to sound like a mother, especially when she remembered a particularly contentious argument in the House over excessive spending for urban renewal. "And you break things."

The corners of Kirkland's mouth turned up a little. "We have a tendency to forget our strength when we get angry," he admitted. "And if someone makes that sodding git America panic because he thinks there's a ghost under the table, there can be rather a lot of damage."

The dialect whiplash was a bit unnerving, but Thatcher supposed she could live with it. It seemed that anything Kirkland had strong opinions on – or strong emotions about – would send him into what sounded to her like a horrible mish-mash of half a dozen urban and rural dialects. Then he'd slip straight back into standard English, sometimes in the same sentence.

It could be worse, she supposed. If she understood all this correctly, he'd been alive at the time of the first Queen Elizabeth, and Thatcher wasn't certain she'd follow him if he started speaking Shakespearean English.

"When you say a lot of damage, what do you mean?" she asked. "An order of magnitude in pounds is sufficient."

Kirkland winced. "The last time America and Russia came to blows, I believe they had to completely rebuild several levels, so... thousands, sometimes tens or hundreds of thousands."

Thatcher considered that. Thousands to hundreds of thousands of pounds wasn't exactly insignificant. "I see." Her tone was noticeably colder. "Am I to understand, then, that you act like undisciplined children?"

Kirkland flushed and turned to glare at her. Strange that she hadn't noticed how remarkably bushy his eyebrows were: that vivid green must have distracted her.

"I do not act like a child," he said curtly. "I cannot answer for the behavior of anyone else."

While Thatcher had her suspicions about how accurate that statement was, she chose not to mention them. "Very well. What kind of advice do you give?"

His expression softened a little. "I advise you and Her Majesty on the mood of the people," he said in a formal tone. "While I am primarily England, I am aware of the people of all Her Majesty's dominions, and as such other personifications need not be consulted."

"Including the Commonwealth?" That could be a truly ugly mess. Thatcher remembered the Australian diplomats and representatives trying to convince the Queen to intervene five years ago, and Her Majesty's refusal to take any part in the former colony's constitutional crisis.

"Not as a rule," Kirkland said. "Those ties are primarily diplomatic and – for me – family." When he smiled without irony, his whole face lit up. "I raised Canada, Australia, and New Zealand," he said. "They were children when I found them, about so high." He held his hand level at about the size of a five year old. "Hong Kong was more an adoption, and some of the others..." A sigh. "All of the Powers were vicious bastards back in the day, you see. I was possibly the least vile of them, but that didn't make me _nice_."

That required another sip of tea. "I gather the image of the British Commonwealth as a big family is a little more than merely metaphor to you, then."

Kirkland coughed, and looked more than a little embarrassed. "To all of us, really. And..." His flush deepened, spreading to his ears. "Personal union between nations means marriage for us – whether we like it or not. War... Well... None of us want another world war."

This time it was Thatcher's turn to wince. "You enforce treaties and the like through sexual congress?" She couldn't keep her voice steady.

Kirkland looked away, gave a curt nod. "It's one of the few ways our actions impact our people."

"By which I presume you mean that the people of the weaker nation are more likely to accept any impositions from the people of the stronger." Nothing could have made that comment less sarcastic. Thatcher was mildly surprised Kirkland didn't flinch.

"Precisely," he said in a cold, empty voice. "None of us are innocent."

#


	4. Chapter 4

After a packed day following all the official functions that went with being sworn in as the new Australian Prime Minister and smiling for the press until his face ached, Robert James Lee Hawke was a hair shy of breaking his promise to stay off the bloody sauce. A beer would have gone down a treat just now, but he knew too well if he had one he wouldn't stop there, and that would be a real bastard of a way to see off old stone-face, getting shit-faced because he'd had enough of the day.

Speak of the devil, it seemed he couldn't get inside his new office without meeting the man. And he'd hoped he'd be able to avoid Fraser's cold stern man look until the next parliament session. He'd best put on his manners and be polite for a little longer: he wasn't even moving in, just being shown the room although he knew where it was – who didn't? Whichever genius figured the Prime Minister's office had to be on the side of Parliament House facing the main road because it was more open to the nation or something was a bloody fool. You couldn't concentrate for the traffic half the time.

Still, he had to be officially shown the room for some reason or other, and it looked like Fraser was part of that because he gave that stiff little smile that looked as though his face would splinter if he wasn't careful, and extended his right hand for a typical photo-op handshake.

Hawke's response was automatic: he'd been shaking hands with anything that moved since the campaign started so another one wasn't going to hurt him.

"Congratulations," Fraser said. As usual, it was hard to tell what he felt from his voice and expression. "There's one last thing for me to do, and that's introduce you to Australia."

Hawke frowned. He'd done all the usual media things, hadn't he?

A voice drifted out from the office. "He means me, mate." The accent was one of the stronger ones, Paul Hogan and Outback combined in a light baritone that seemed to carry odd echoes.

Inside, the owner of the voice sprawled on one of the lounges, a muscular kid who looked – and dressed – like he'd just come off duty from basic training. Tanned skin, brown hair that wasn't quite long enough to curl the way it threatened to, with a split cowlick sticking up in defiance of the neat uniform. The kid's eyes were that odd gray-green of gum leaves right after rain, and he had a band-aid over the bridge of his nose. "G'day."

_Could this get any more cliché?_ Hawke wondered.

"This," Fraser said, "is the personification of Australia, the avatar of our nation if you will. As Prime Minister, you are now effectively in charge of him." He turned to leave. "And if you think I'm being unreasonable about this, imagine the introduction Whitlam gave me." And walked out.

Hawke could imagine all right. Whitlam had never forgiven Fraser for blocking Supply or for the constitutional crisis that followed. Even nearly ten years later, nobody _ever_ put those two men in the same room if they could avoid it.

The kid grinned, showing very white teeth. "He's right, ya know. Gough just let him walk in and find me here. Real bastard move, that."

Hawke couldn't disagree. "Yeah, it is." He sat down opposite the kid, wishing – again – that it was safe to have a beer. The cravings hit hardest when he was tired or overwhelmed.

"Ya look like a dog's dinner." Apparently the kid wasn't big on tact. "Ya ever heard of us? Me, I mean. Nations. Avatars."

He hadn't, and said so.

"Yeah, figured." The kid rolled off the lounge and extended his right hand to shake. "It's not exactly a secret, but the blokes in the know don't say much 'cause who wants some yob calling you a loony?" His grip was firm, and Hawke couldn't help feeling as though he knew the kid – which was ridiculous. Nobody got that sort of feeling just from a handshake.

"You're probably thinking something funny's going on because you feel like you know me now we've shaken hands."

Hawke couldn't have stopped his mouth falling open if he'd tried.

The kid grinned. "It's cause of what I am, see. Every Aussie is part of me, and I'm part of them."

If he accepted that such things could exist, it make sense, Hawke decided. He still wished he could have a beer. Orange juice wasn't going to help _this_ headache.

Beer probably wouldn't either, really. He'd just wind up hung over and still facing this loony situation. That bastard Fraser didn't have to just leave him with it. "Does Bill know about you?" He wasn't sure why he asked that, except that if Hayden _did_ know and didn't say anything Hawke was going to find something to make his life miserable. Make him Governor General when Stephen retired, maybe.

In the hope that movement would help, he stood, started pacing.

"Yeah, he does," the kid said with a shrug. "Met him when he was Treasurer. Decent bloke, bit of a wuss though."

That wasn't the way Hawke would have described Hayden – he'd thought of the former Labor leader as a little too self-contained to really thrive in politics, but never a 'wuss'. Maybe the kid had a different standard – if he was what he claimed, he just might.

"What do you actually _do_?" he asked, hoping the answer to that would help him sort out just where the kid fitted.

He got a wicked grin in response. "Make me bosses miserable." The kid stretched, and wandered over to the desk, picked up a very full manila folder. "All the official bullshit's in there. They call me Jack Kirkland for the red tape, since the typing pool got all shirty about having to type me full title all the time, and ya don't get the typists, the secretaries, or the cleaners mad at you."

Hawke knew the principle: the people in the mundane jobs who kept things running could make life utterly miserable if they disliked someone. Crucial documents went missing, got 'accidentally' shredded, or had highly embarrassing typographical errors. Tea or coffee was made to taste as nasty as possible – he'd heard some of the tales from those who'd been in Whitlam's government when Supply was blocked and nobody was getting paid but they were still expected to come in and work.

"Me official role's 'Adviser to the Government of the Commonwealth of Australia'," the kid added, and Hawke understood why the typing pool would get unhappy. If he had it right, the kid was also the Commonwealth of Australia, and he had to agree that 'The Commonwealth of Australia, Adviser to the Government of the Commonwealth of Australia' was just a tad unwieldy. By about the same margin as the Pacific Ocean was a tad damp.

"It means sweet FA," Australia said with a bit of a sneer. "I don't get a vote, see. All I get is to tell me boss if he's buggering things up. He can ignore me or tell me to shove it up me arse."

Hawke blinked, taking a step back in the face of the kid's anger. "Why would anyone do that? I mean, if you're the nation and everyone in it, you know how everyone is doing and what they're feeling. And you're old... well... much older than anyone in the Government."

Australia snorted, but he set the overloaded folder back on the desk without any theatrics. "Whitlam was an arrogant arse who thought he knew better. Thought I only cared about me white people cause I look more like 'em than I look like me tribes. I told him he'd crash the bloody country and lose all the good he was trying to do, and that's what happened. Fraser wasn't any better. They look at me an' see a kid, an' figure there's buggerall I can tell 'em that's any bloody good."

_Oh. _Since Hawke's initial reaction had been exactly that, he could see how it would work, especially for men with egos like both Whitlam and Fraser. If he was going to be honest with himself, he'd have been no better during his tenure as ACLU President: it was the experience of dragging his soused, worthless self out of the bottom of a beer barrel that had taught him humility. "You're welcome to thump me one if I get that way," he said after a moment. "Last time I got that full of myself I ended up... well... you know." The whole bloody _country_ knew: his battle with alcoholism had been played out in the national news.

Australia's expression softened, and for a moment, Hawke could see that he really _was_ old: there was an ageless weariness in his eyes, the kind of war-weary look he'd only seen in very elderly veterans before. "Thanks, mate. I'll hold you to that."


End file.
